


ﲫblitzfeuer

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Case Fic, Crisis Catch-and-Carry, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serious Injuries, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: A fiery day finds the team investigating a case that no one comes away from unscathed.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Crisis Catch-and-Carry.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 77
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	ﲫblitzfeuer

### ﲫJT

Fridays don't come with sun so hot it melts the core of bones into molten pools collapsing bodies from the inside out. Beams yesterdays into tomorrows, a spotlight on everything done wrong until there's no shade left. Blazes _I love yous_ onto neon signs lost among the strip of _good nights_ and _see ya laters_. Bursts a flame that never dims.

This Friday brings the hottest day on record for New York: 107 degrees. The news blares it's a mark held since 1936, just shy of 100 years. JT turns the radio off and drives the rest of the way with his passenger chattering beside him, providing white noise.

Or _Bright noise_ , as he’s started calling it.

Their murderer didn’t get the memo to avoid strenuous activity in the heat. Called out to a Bronx mid-rise, they end up walking six floors up to the victim left in a studio apartment. “No signs of forced entry or egress,” the first officer on scene tells them.

No air conditioning either. It must be getting close to a balmy 120 degrees where they stand. “Can we open a window?” Gil comments back, the walk up leaving sweat at his temples already.

“I bet JT it’d be 123 in here — Edrisa, do you have a thermometer?” Malcolm asks, taking in the scene in one swoop from the window to the deceased on the floor of the kitchen.

“Otherwise occupied,” Edrisa returns, looking up from her perch beside the corpse.

“I’ll give ya this one, bro,” JT offers, patting a wad of paper towels against his brow.

“No — I have to earn it,” Malcolm protests.

“Earn your keep,” Gil interjects, his tense gaze seemingly trying to manage how much of a pest Malcolm will become in the sauna. “Miles Dixon, 26, renter of this apartment.”

“Now ghost of this apartment,” Edrisa shares. Everyone glares at her. “What, you didn’t feel that when you came in?”

Malcolm shakes his head a little bit.

“Well, maybe I was wrong,” Edrisa notes, filing away the disappointment with her lip. “Anyhow, human Molotov.”

“I doubt anyone threw him through the window,” Gil comments and looks to where it remains closed, his brow unsatisfied that they still don’t have more air circulating through the space.

“Accelerant?” JT asks, taking in the blackened meld of clothing and skin.

“Smells like lighter fluid, little gas. And crispy por— “ Edrisa starts.

“Noo,” JT cuts her off with a wave of his hand, the residual charcoal scent baked into the room.

“If it went any deeper, it’d — “ Malcolm adds.

“No more barbecue,” Gil interrupts and trains his eyes on Malcolm, then Edrisa. JT squirms at the word, moving his gaze to the team’s faces instead of the victim.

“Why didn’t you say you could turn down the heat?” Malcolm returns in jest, repositioning to look at the deceased’s charred chest from another angle.

Gil gives him a stronger warning glare that would melt anyone else into submission. “Lose the jacket — you’re making me hotter,” Gil orders, but Malcolm keeps going about his job instead of docking anything from his light grey three piece suit.

“Doesn’t Bright have that effect on all of us?” Edrisa indicates with a smile.

“ _Edrisa_ — “ Gil’s tone works on her, and she gets back to the victim.

“Flames contributed, cause of death will need to wait for autopsy,” Edrisa explains, pushing her glasses back with her elbow as she stands.

JT looks around the entire room a second time, sure he’s missed something. Even checks Dani’s face to see if she sees differently. “There’s no fire,” JT points out the obvious.

“Must be why you’re here, right?” Edrisa gives him a smug smile he narrows his eyes at.

“If you have any ideas, could you share them?” Dani requests.

Edrisa and Malcolm trade glances between the window and the victim. She holds her hands up like she’s wielding a bazooka and says, “Incendiary.”

“They would have had to agree to some lengthy terms and conditions to get one of those,” Malcolm points out. “Unless it’s a World War antique.”

Edrisa shakes her head. "Wouldn't need the combustible fluid mix. Propane tank versus gasoline."

Dani tilts her head at Edrisa, trying to follow.

“ _The Boring Company isn’t responsible for anything I do, no matter how genius or stupid_ ,” Edrisa recites from memory, one hand up like a girl scout pledge.

“Seems prudent when a flamethrower is involved,” JT responds, making the connection from wartime horror to someone’s twisted idea of a toy.

“Not-a-Flamethrower,” Malcolm corrects. JT aims his stare at Malcolm, but his eyes have already moved on to analyzing the next thing.

Edrisa continues, “ _I will not use this in a house, I will not point this at my spouse, I will not use this in an unsafe way, the best use is crème brûlée_.”

“I don’t think they followed the instructions,” Gil observes.

“I would like some — “ Malcolm starts.

“If dessert comes out of your mouth, I’m leaving you in this oven,” JT warns, retreating to look at the rest of the kitchen.

Malcolm steps closer to the scorch marks on the window trim, facing away from the team. “I need some time to look at his path through this place.”

“It’s 500 square feet,” Dani reminds.

“So he had a key or the victim let him in,” Malcolm rattles off the textbook page. “Let me do my thing.”

The team takes their time observing each of the tented pieces of evidence, the empty pizza box on the coffee table, the mussed bedsheets topping the mattress on the opposite side. There isn’t a second tenant listed on the lease and aren’t signs of another person’s clothing or belongings either.

What they lack in the evidence department, they make up for in the sweat department, the room taking on the rank odor of deodorant failing in a studio full of more people than it would typically accommodate. The victim gets wheeled away, and many of the personnel start to filter out.

“Let’s go talk to the super,” Gil says to Dani, his hair taking on a messed up fuzz from pushing drips away, his grey polo shirt sweat through at the armpits.

Dani nods and crosses to leave, revealing a sweat stain on her back from leaning against the wall.

“Bright, you got ten minutes ’til the train is leaving,” Gil calls.

“I rode with JT,” Malcolm responds from the bathroom.

“We’re all going in ten. Mandatory water break,” Gil adds as if the air of officiality will get Malcolm moving in the right direction. Gil and JT share a glance, JT nodding in understanding that he’ll stay behind until Malcolm’s ready.

JT pulls at the hem of his t-shirt threatening to soak through at the stomach next, his neck, arms, and back already fallen victim. Flapping the hem, he fans in as much air as he can, welcoming any relief. “Swimming pool sounds pretty good right about now,” JT comments to Malcolm.

“You have one?” Malcolm asks.

“Noo — in an apartment?” JT laughs, seriously questioning Malcolm’s touch with reality. “What, you think we live in a fancy pad like you?”

“I don’t have a pool either.”

“Might as well stow one on that second floor.” With whatever other weird shit he had up there.

“Kinda dangerous if it leaks.”

“How about the basement?”

“Underground club for the Panera.”

“What?” JT doesn’t try to follow the conversation any longer, deciding it’s off in a land only Malcolm can wander. He hears shuffling, the shower curtain rattling. “What are you doing?”

“Just looking at something,” Malcolm’s voice sounds muffled, his head poking somewhere.

At a heavy slide along the tile, JT walks toward the bathroom, wondering what in the hell he’s into.

A flash, and flames are framed through the doorway, a ghastly display of yellow tendrils reaching for Malcolm’s back. JT can’t see his front where the burst licked him, only a scrawny man barely Edrisa’s size darting from the room. On instinct, he tackles and cuffs the scraggly man to the bedpost, not finding any weapons on him. He leaves the assailant, his biggest concern the ragged howling from the next room.

“ _Holy shit!_ “ JT exclaims, ripping a towel off the rack and thumping it over Malcolm’s chest. Malcolm’s rolling on the floor had dimmed the fire some, but it still seems like a roaring blaze JT has to whack until the flames are smothered, the smell of gas reaching him with every hit. The offending flamethrower lays forgotten in the corner, looking like a piece out of a video game. Fluid keeps spilling near the tub, no longer having ignition to catch it.

JT whips his phone out of his pocket and puts it on speaker at the same time he feels for Malcolm’s pulse and breathing. “Boss — suspect on scene. We need a bus — “ JT shouts.

Malcolm’s lips move, but gone is the yelling, the only sound remaining air coming out in a hiss. His neck is singed, parts of his suit now charcoal instead of soft grey.

“What’d he — “ Gil starts, irritation coming through.

“Bright’s down,” JT barrels past any questions Gil has. “I’m gonna run him to ground. We need a bus waiting,” JT reemphasizes. JT undoes Malcolm’s tie and opens the top two buttons of his shirt, hoping to make it easier for him to breathe. A quick clip with his pocket knife, and the line to the fuel canister is disconnected from the flamethrower, rendering it inoperable.

JT shoves his phone in his front pocket and lifts Malcolm over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry. He’s as light as some of the kids he carried on the battlefield, fresh out of high school and onto the rugged terrain. “Bright, you stay with me.” JT’s legs propel him out the door and toward the stairs.

“Where’s the suspect?” Gil asks. JT struggles to wrestle some attention from the man on his shoulders to give to the distant voice.

“I cuffed him to the bed.” JT’s breaths puff into the air, his feet starting the rapid clomp down the stairs. “But it’s loose — I had to get the kid.”

“How bad?”

“He hit him with the napalm.”

“ _Shit_.” JT hears a spattering of curses from Gil and yelling away from the phone.

“He’s gotta go straight in the ambulance,” JT huffs, his boots pounding against the linoleum-covered concrete.

“Any weapons?”

“Cut the flamethrower line — nothing on pat-down.”

Hectic screaming and rapid organization take over the phone, and the chaos falls into the background like Bright noise.

JT finds it more comforting to keep talking to Malcolm than bear his footsteps. “Bright, you’re gonna have to show me how you get by on no sleep. With the baby coming, I might give you a run for your money.”

JT finishes thudding down the second flight of stairs, rounding the banister to keep going.

“You might be wrong about the temp now — sure feels like 130.” Sweat’s pouring into his eyes, his mouth, the heat reminiscent of days spent in the desert, yet with the added challenge of humidity. “You’re gonna have to measure for me.”

There isn’t the ra-ta-tapping of dialogue bouncing on why that temperature reading can’t possibly be right and how his brain is imagining it so he thinks its worse and seeks relief. Isn’t curious brainstorming aloud of how the suspect found his way through the scene and never left. Isn’t the ridiculously annoying banter of every topic that pops in his head until a new one is more interesting.

Just silence.

“Today’s not leg day,” JT complains, letting out a sarcastic laugh. “Tally’s gonna give me a hard time for being an old man.” Give him the remote, rub his calves, feed him extra toasty snacks — he can almost smell them.

Fresh roasted charcoal. He gags.

JT thunders down another flight. “You can’t let me win, Bright. Still gotta guess my name. I promise you, it’s worth the wait. Before you ask, no, it’s not Jefe.”

He can see the exit in sight. Someone’s holding it open, the light streaking into the stairwell, encouraging him to go faster.

“Medic!” he roars as he breaches the doorway.

Ambulance just arriving on scene, JT keeps running toward it, footsteps hammering into the pavement.

Malcolm goes straight out of the fireman’s carry and onto the stretcher. His chest is a mass of charcoal, his whole body too still to resemble Bright, the edges of his lips blue, his skin washed out on his face yet reddened and tarred at his neck. JT hovers, arms shaking, trying to hear that his friend is okay. That he ran fast enough.

“No pulse, no respiration,” makes it through the doors, and they snap closed.

He’s been carrying a corpse.

JT’s limbs melt and he collapses to the ground, his hip making contact with the street. He folds over his knees, back in a place he had to make split second decisions with the greatest consequences — life — on a daily basis. This wasn’t the service, this was the Bronx, working for a place he had promised his wife was less dangerous.

Cuffing the suspect before helping the kid, and he’d killed him. He knew he was into something — he shouldn’t have let him linger without checking in. Now he was dead.

JT hurls on the pavement, waves of vomit rolling through him. Rocks over his knees, hearing distant sirens and warning to keep moving. Where are the combatants?

Hands pull at his shoulders, and he struggles to grasp where he is, bending closer to a circle of hell than his teammates.

### ﲫGil

“I need water!” Gil hollers, pressing the cold bottle he had been drinking before the commotion against JT’s face.

Dani runs over with a few they had stowed in Gil’s trunk, emptying two lukewarm bottles in a sploosh over his head and shoulders before uncapping the cold one she had been drinking. “Take a sip for me, JT,” she instructs, completing the full motion for him to pour some into his mouth.

He sputters, the water running down his chin and onto his shirt.

“I’m gonna take your boots off, and Gil’s gonna help you lay down,” Dani explains. “There’s a second ambulance coming right behind — should be here any minute.”

“Paulson — go knock on apartments — get ice,” Gil shouts to where he had be posted at a squad car, waiting for the suspect to be brought down.

Gil helps JT onto his side into a recovery position in case he gets sick again. After Dani clears JT’s boots, she starts flooding his clothes with more of the water officers had collected. An officer stands over them with two umbrellas, providing whatever shade cover they can.

JT coughs, getting sick on the ground. Dani rubs his shoulder, repeating, “You’re okay, you’re okay,” and shifts the bottles of cold water against the back of his neck.

Paulson returns with a full bin of ice ripped straight out of a freezer. They dump it over JT’s chest and neck. Dani holds several pieces against his face, while Gil works to trap some under his armpits. He resembles a fish they’ve laid out for sale more than the strong, protective detective.

JT’s hands start pushing away at the cold, becoming more alert.

“JT, you’re at a scene,” Gil explains, trying to orient him.

JT’s hands reach toward his face. “I tried,” JT gets out.

“You did your duty and then some.” Gil squeezes his shoulder. “Got him to the hospital. You’re going next.”

“Tally — “

“First thing. As soon as you’re in the bus,” Dani promises.

The ambulance pulls up and two paramedics come over to them, starting with checking his vitals. When they put JT on the stretcher, a river of melting ice chunks runs off. “Great quick thinking,” the medic comments.

The compliment belongs to the man on the stretcher, not them.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Dani guarantees as they wheel JT away.

When the doors smack, Dani has her hand on Gil’s arm. “Come to the car with me, and we’ll go.”

No longer having the urgency of getting JT to the hospital, Gil’s legs go lax. Dani’s hand takes more of his weight, so she wraps an arm around his back. “Can you walk?”

Every bit of energy is with his kid, his teammate, his friends.

God, his kid.

Dani tugs, and Gil knows he has to get to him. His steps take him forward, and she guides him into the passenger seat.

His sobs against the door take up every inch of the car, the air conditioning unable to compete with the hot air threatening to engulf them.

### ﲫDani

The harsh reality had stared them in the face as a blackened form had passed them and gone into the ambulance to leave the scene. Emblazoned with burns and unresponsive, odds were Malcolm was dead.

Dani practically carries Gil into the ER, all of his weight resting on her as they shuffle into the waiting room. Tally’s waiting for them, and she takes Gil’s other side and helps direct him into the furthest away corner possible. She shares a glance with Tally, and Tally gives a small nod that she’s got him.

Somehow, in all this mess, Tally is still able to help even though she hasn’t received word on her husband. She deserves a medal. JT deserves a commendation.

Dani walks up to the reception window and says, “I’m trying to get an update on Malcolm Bright.”

“Relation?” the woman asks from a script she must recite dozens of times a day.

Dani looks over her shoulder. “The Lieutenant is one of his emergency contacts,” she says, knowing the woman won’t share information with anyone who’s not.

The woman looks over and appears to consider what to say. “Bring me his license,” she adjusts her approach to cater to the situation.

Dani walks back to Gil and crouches to his level.

“M-m,” he tries, but he can’t get the words out. Dani’s eyes soften watching him struggle, wishing she could do more to help.

“I need your ID. For check-in. So they can give you an update,” Dani explains, squeezing his knee.

Gil fumbles in his pocket for his wallet and hands it to Dani, who extracts his license and gives it back. She returns to the window to hand it to the woman.

A nurse comes to them right away and Dani has to swallow around the lump that builds in her throat, threatening her ability to breathe. No one’s ever given her information this quickly at a hospital. They can only have news for them already if —

Dani forces herself to inhale, counting in her head like she’s helping Malcolm come down from a panic. The nurse starts walking away, presumably to lead Gil to another room where they can talk, yet he’s unmoving. Dani and Tally guide him there, waiting outside while he receives the news. The nurse exits after barely a minute.

Gil doesn’t.

Dani goes in. Kneels in front of him. Squeezes his knee.

“He’s not dead,” Gil’s words rush out, and his air hiccups on a sob.

Dani wraps her arms around him, his chest heaving with worry and relief, more of his tears falling onto her shoulder.

Malcolm has a chance.

She can’t believe it.

* * *

It takes several long minutes for Gil to wrap his worry into his chest and pull away, seeking some space. At Dani’s suggestion to wash up, Gil disappears to the bathroom.

Dani finds her own spot in a stall in the women’s room, only then letting her tears fall into a wad of toilet paper. Counts herself out a couple minutes before she’s out and over the sink, washing away any traces of her stress so she can be there for everyone else. Blots under her arms to feel a little less disgusting. Grabs a few extra paper towels to keep with them while they wait.

Gil seems to take his time, which Dani finds for the best, leaving she and Tally to wait together for any news.

“He carried him down five flights of stairs,” Dani shares, rubbing a paper towel back and forth between her fingers, holding it close in case any more tears threaten her composure.

“Sounds like JT.” Tally smiles, tracing circles on her pants. “I’ll have to give him a hard time about being a hot head.” Dani meets her eyes and Tally presses her lips together. “The desert didn’t get him — I know he’ll be fine once he cools down.”

“He’s the only reason Bright has a chance.” The only reason they aren’t huddled outside the morgue. Dani squeezes the paper towel, forcing the thought into the back of her mind.

“Yeah. That, he’s not gonna let go.” Tally rubs the six month’s pregnant swell of her stomach. “Can tell you every single soldier he served with who didn’t come back.”

Neither one of them says Malcolm will make it. They’re words Dani can’t promise, words she knows Tally won’t welcome. JT’s in a line of work that carries the risk of injury. Death.

They just don’t expect it to happen.

“Did I tell you what my husband wants to name this baby?” Tally says.

Dani gives her a questioning look, welcoming the distraction.

“Peanut.” Tally smiles and shakes her head. “Can you believe that?”

Dani smirks and returns the head shake.

* * *

When Gil eventually reappears, he sits between them and puts his hands on both of theirs on the arms of the chairs. Takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Both of them nod. He looks a lot more like her boss than her grieving friend. She hadn’t even seen him look like that at Jackie’s funeral. Probably because she hadn’t been around when he had found out. Malcolm was.

Thank god she had been there.

His head is still bowed, focused on his knees, his arms crossed and hands hiding in his sides, but he’s talking. A vast improvement since the chaos had stopped.

“I called Jessica. Did an awful job trying to explain acute respiratory distress. She’s getting Ainsley.” His head turns toward Tally, but he doesn’t look up. “Any word on JT?”

“Not yet. They’ll be out soon enough,” Tally responds.

“He saved him,” Gil’s voice is quiet, grateful.

Tally rubs her hand across his back, and he seems to relax a little bit more.

They dip back into silence and wait.

Dani wishes she had a piece of gum.

Or something stronger.

She picks at her fingers, thinking of her friend.

### ﲫTally

It’s only another hour when a doctor finds Tally, letting her know she can see her husband. She leaves the waiting room behind, glad it didn’t take too long for her to be able to confirm he’s fine with her own eyes. She knows he’s going to need all the support she can give.

JT’s back is to her, and she gets right in bed behind him, hugging him around the middle. He’s cold, even shivering a little, the blanket he’s under designed to keep him chilled. “He’s alive, fighting,” Tally says into his ear, hugging him tighter.

“Okay,” he says quietly, a tear streaming down his cheek. She kisses the base of his neck. “I thought — “ he trails off as if saying the words will bring disaster.

“I gotchu,” she soothes, holding him for several minutes. She’s the only one who ever sees this side of her husband, and she needs him to let out some of his worry and not carry it with everything else he puts on his shoulders.

He clears his throat, and she can hear his emotions retreat back inside. He starts tentatively, “Concern of heatstroke is _not_ the way I wanted to see a thermometer today.”

Tally lets out a small chuckle. “Hot stuff, huh?”

“Overheated.” He shivers. “Got to sit in an ice bath, but I’m gross, you might wanna — “

But she keeps holding him, caring more about her husband’s presence than his scent. “Doctor said thankfully you hopped off the train at heat exhaustion. Does anything hurt?”

JT stills and quiets a moment. “I’m fine, babe.” He takes her hand and kisses the back. “Are you okay?”

“One kicking ball of energy in here.” She reaches JT’s hand back and presses it to her stomach.

“Maybe Bright can teach them some of his kung fu.”

“Or ballet.” Tally rubs her hand up and down JT’s arm.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, JT breaking the silence with, “Who’s with Gil?”

“Dani. We’ve all been sitting together.” Family.

“I’d like to talk to him. After.”

“I’ll tell him.” She kisses his neck. “Can I keep you a few more minutes first?”

“You better, wife,” he teases.

She lightly pinches his stomach and snuggles against him.

* * *

Tally returns to the waiting room to find Jessica and Ainsley crowded around Gil. Dani’s staring off in the opposite direction, not fitting anymore. Knowing it’s easier to keep her occupied with purpose, Tally walks over to her and offers, “C’mon,” taking her from the waiting room in to see JT.

“You gonna come in, or stay in the doorway?” JT asks, sitting up in bed.

“Sorry.” Dani walks in further, taking a spot standing beside Tally’s chair.

“Any word?”

Dani shakes her head.

“They get him?”

“Yeah. And his combustible brew.”

“Good.” Such the conversationalists.

“Was a mean 40-yard dash,” Dani comments.

“Gotta try for semi-pro or something, you know?” That was her husband, making light and minimizing his valor.

Dani fidgets, accidentally hitting Tally’s chair with her arm and stepping further away. “Should I, uh, get you some honey roasted peanuts? Or peanut m&ms?” That perks Tally’s ears in amusement.

“You told her?” JT looks to Tally.

“Strength in numbers.” Tally smiles, happy her husband has latched onto something that isn’t worrying about his friend.

“Peanut’s a good nickname,” JT complains. She’s pestered him about it more than a few times.

“Something else for their _name_ would be nice,” Tally indicates.

“Lea is a good name,” Dani offers.

“No,” JT stops Dani before she can go any further. “Everyone wants to give an opinion.”

“Maybe you need a better name book,” Dani jokes.

“Gonna have to take away your visitor privileges.” JT quirks an eyebrow at Tally and she laughs, rubbing her belly.

“I’ll leave you guys be,” Dani says, moving toward the door.

“If Gil gets a minute, can you send him this way?” JT asks.

“Of course.” Dani leaves.

“ _You_ — “ JT gives Tally a glance that’s more teasing than annoyed. “ — I can’t even be mad.

### ﲫJT

JT reaches his hand out, and Tally stands, letting him feel her stomach. “Happy to see Dad,” Tally comments.

“You’ve gotta be tired.”

“I’m okay.” She rubs his wrist with her thumb. “Is there anything I can get you? Water? A foot massage?”

He holds back _isn’t that what I’m supposed to do for you_ because her massages are just so damn good. “Would you really?”

“Umhm.”

Tally squeezes his hand and shifts to the other end of the bed. She peels back the sheets near his feet and presses into his arch. His eyes close at the relief she offers, the pressure from running in his boots having built up in his feet.

She moves to his other foot, offering it the same treatment. “Do you wanna take a nap?” Tally asks.

“Yeah. But I need to talk to Gil.” His chest clenches, reminding he needs to tell him he’s sorry. He’s so —

“Sleep — I’ll wake you when he’s here.” Tally covers his legs again. “Really sleep.” She washes her hands and sits in the chair beside him again.

* * *

JT cycles napping and waking, the hospital environment making it difficult to get any sleep. It doesn’t help that every time he closes his eyes, he can see flames shoot at Malcolm, smell charcoal, watch his boots transform from Nordstrom Rack to combat lace ups. When he startles awake, he looks at Tally, grounds himself in her presence, and shuts his eyes to try again.

She catches him one of the times and takes his hand. He gives up at that point, lazing with his eyes cracked.

A knock at the door draws his attention — Gil.

“I’ll give you guys a minute,” Tally indicates, squeezing JT’s hand and heading for the door.

Gil squeezes her shoulder in thanks on the way past.

Gil’s hand covers his goatee, then pulls back. “You did…so well,” Gil says, standing beside JT’s bed.

“Any word on Bright?” JT asks.

Gil bites his lip and shakes his head.

“Let me know as soon as you know?” JT requests, his need to know Malcolm is okay stronger than most anything else.

Gil nods. “H-how — “ Gil starts and trails off.

“Not today,” JT says firmly. It’s a conversation he doesn’t want to have ever. He also knows the precinct’s going to want him to give a statement as soon as he’s able, and the hospital’s going to be pretty eager to send him home. He’s keen on getting out of there, but he doesn’t want to answer procedural questions. "I'm so—"

"No," Gil stops him immediately.

Silence falls between them, thoughts returning to Malcolm again. After awhile, Gil speaks, “You know you’re finally gonna have to tell him your name.”

JT thinks back to everything he had said to Malcolm while he still had Gil on the phone, hoping those weren’t his last words to him. “I don’t think he’s gonna find the answer very satisfying.”

Gil shrugs. “Humor him.”

“He’s gonna demand earning it.”

“I think this qualifies,” Gil says, but his instant playing with his goatee again shows JT he regrets it.

It still stings.

They don’t come up with anything else to talk about, and Gil retreats to the waiting room.

* * *

As soon as JT gets released, he goes to see Malcolm in the ICU. Malcolm’s chest and neck are wrapped in bulky dressings like a mummy. The ventilator makes him look incredibly small, its hissing a necessary yet unwelcome presence in the room.

“Hey, Bright,” JT starts, standing beside the bed. “Was a hell of a badass move finding that guy.” He fists his hands and unclenches them. “Maybe next time you can yell before you move a vanity and open the access door to get to the plumbing for the next apartment.” He lets out a small chuckle at how dumb the action was because there isn’t anything else to do. It’s better than letting tears get a hold of him again.

It’s weird providing both sides of the conversation, much too reminiscent of the run to get Malcolm out of the mid-rise. He needs Bright noise to keep him sane.

“You’re probably gonna try to tell me this is _moderately scathed_ , but this is highly scalded. Gil’s a wreck, man. Dani’s stretching trying to hold everyone together. And I — miss your voice.”

The ventilator keeps whirring in the background.

“I’ll even let you pick the radio station. Once. If it’s something that won’t make my ears bleed.” JT rubs his hair, running out of things to say. “Now start getting better so we can experience high Bright, the sequel. Tally doesn’t believe how funny you were.”

JT spares a last look at him and leaves, taking Tally’s arm in the hallway.

* * *

There aren’t _goodnights_ or _see ya laters_. Every minute in the hospital is lost among a pool of so many others, the concept of time passes into the ether. The faces rotate — sometimes JT sees Jessica, others Gil, others he and Dani go together.

JT files bits and pieces of information he gets along the way as a record of progress. Malcolm’s kidney function is good, they’re applying antibacterial creams and closely monitoring for infection, and some of his burns start to get exposed to crust and heal.

The word _lucky_ gets used to the point it makes JT itch, its positive connotation in comparison to the grievous situation a vex under his skin he can’t scratch out. The one time he’s there when the doctor is, she explains they’re protecting his airway, managing his pain, and he should be able to come off the ventilator any day.

He’s lucky. He’s alive.

Fuck if he looks like it.

Until the guy’s talking, he doesn’t want to hear one more utterance of the word. Until he sees with his own eyes that Bright will be Bright, he doesn’t want any false promises.

* * *

It’s midday when Gil texts JT _come down — he’s off the vent_. JT buries himself in work until he’s prepared to face him, downing courage with yet another coffee and heading out before he loses his nerve.

What if it’s not Bright?

What happens then?

JT waits just outside the door, watching Gil at Malcolm’s bedside. Malcolm’s still laying pretty flat, but the plastic tethering him to the ventilator is gone. And he and Gil are _talking_.

“He didn’t follow the directions,” Malcolm ekes out, his throat trashed from irritation.

“Kid — “

“‘m fine — fine,” he says the words that are such an awful lie, yet reveal he’s behaving so much more like himself.

Gil holds a straw to his mouth so he can get a sip of water without stretching any of the dressings left on his chest. “Brought a friend with me,” Gil explains. “JT’s outside.”

Malcolm looks to the window, ignoring the straw, a small smile perking the corner of his mouth. JT smiles back, thrilled he’s made so much progress.

“I know he’d like to see you,” Gil adds.

Malcolm’s fingers curling toward him are all it takes for JT to enter the room. 

* * *

Gil sneaks out to leave the two of them together.

“Brought your favorite snack.” JT holds up a six-pack of lemon jello and sets it on the rolling side table. “Help you bulk up.”

Malcolm nods in thanks. “65,” he says, his voice raspy as hell.

“I don’t know, man. Might be 66,” JT teases, the temperature of the hospital the furthest thing he cares about at the moment.

“Prove it.” Malcolm smirks. His eyes are glazed, definitely _very_ high, but it’s Bright.

Caught up in how glad he is that Malcolm seems to be okay, JT doesn’t come up with a comeback fast enough. It dips the room more somber, the reality of how lucky Malcolm is riding in on happiness’ coattails. That word again — lucky — JT scratches at his arm a moment, but stops when he realizes thinking that way might be safe now.

“Thank you,” Malcolm gets out, his chest visibly clenching as he tries to hold back a cough.

“My job,” JT says, but the long look they trade shares they both know how grateful they are for the other. “Good thing you don’t wear that cheap polyester stuff, huh?”

A rolling laugh rocks Malcolm’s chest on the bed, throwing him into a coughing fit that stretches his burns and etches pain into his face. JT’s mortified he's caused more harm instead of bringing him his intended semblance of joy. Thankfully, Malcolm settles quick enough, holding a hand in front of him. “Comedy hour,” Malcolm gets out, smiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He eases through another breath. “Needed that.”

“Needed pain, huh? Why is that not surprising?”

Malcolm’s smile grows wider, and he manages not to laugh again. “Question?” JT nods at Malcolm’s request. “Your name?”

“You already know it.”

The infusion pump releases his next dose of pain management, and Malcolm drifts off to sleep, a hint of a smile still on his face.

### ﲫMalcolm

In the wee hours of the morning, Malcolm’s awake, like he’s been every other night in this damned hospital. They give him sedatives, pump him full of painkillers, keep tacking on _one more day_ in an effort to see he’s healed enough before he goes home.

The person who naps in the corner changes each day. Sometimes it’s his sister, still in her suit from the news desk, unwilling to admit she’s incredibly worried for her brother. Others it’s his mother, who would stay there all day, every day if Gil didn’t punch her out of the clock, promising to call her with any update.

Today, it’s Gil. Straight from the precinct in a navy polo and dress pants, the remains of their late coffee together still sitting at his side. His head is tucked into his shoulder, his frame much too large for the uncomfortable chair that will surely leave him with a crick in his neck in the morning.

But as Malcolm watches him rest, all he can think of is the look of relief Gil gives him that he’s alive. His gratitude that he’ll actually be able to bring Malcolm home. His renewed patience for dealing with his kid come patient.

“You need something?” Gil asks, surprising Malcolm, their eyes meeting in the darkness.

“It’s kind of cold,” Malcolm covers the path his thoughts were treading.

Gil gets another blanket from the closet and covers him with it.

“Try to get some sleep.”

“Do you think I could have a case?” His words slur from the painkillers.

“ _Bright_.”

“That’s what I figured.” He’d just wanted to see that look of scorn for a second.

Gil sits on the edge of the bed. “Maybe today’s the day.”

Malcolm nods, rolls his lip between his teeth. “Thanks, Gil.”

Gil rubs Malcolm’s shoulder. “What has all the lights on in that brain of yours?”

Malcolm looks down at the sheets. “Grateful.”

Gil hugs him, careful of his crusted sores. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

They separate a little and Gil brushes Malcolm's hair back from his face. "I'm gonna buy one," Malcolm says.

"What?"

"Not-a-Flamethrower."

Gil gapes at the prospect. "They're long sold out."

Malcolm scoffs, "Like I can't get a resale for the right price."

" _Kid_ — "

"It's just propane. They're really not that dangerous without — "

" _No,_ " Gil stands firm.

Malcolm doesn't understand why he's so worried. Well, maybe he gets it a little.

Alright, more than a little.

Perhaps the idea was insensitive. He still wants one. An addition to his display cabinet to match his flashy new scars.

Malcolm yawns.

Gil pulls the covers up around his shoulders. "Sleep."

He listens.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
